


Me and Baby Brother Used to Run Together

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Gods of the Arena, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: 4 + 1 fic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brothers, Fluff, M/M, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4 times Agron protected his brother, and 1 time he let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and Baby Brother Used to Run Together

**Author's Note:**

> In my AU-verse, Agron’s family moves from Berlin to New York when he is 4 and Duro about 1, hence why he uses American terms like “soccer” in this fic. In addition, he starts school a year late because his mother wanted him to have at least a basic grasp of English, thus he and Duro are 3 years apart but only 2 grades.
> 
> Title from the song "Me and Baby Brother," by War

**1\. (4 and 7 years old)**

Agron squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them with a loud huff. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked over to the other bed.

“What’s wrong, Duro?”

Duro sniffled and rolled over. His stuffed iguana was clutched tightly in his arms, and the blankets by his feet were completely tangled and twisted from his constant movement. His face was wet from crying. Agron climbed out of his own bed and went to sit by Duro’s feet.

“I _see’d_ something,” Duro said miserably through his tears. Agron knew that Mama would never roll her eyes, so he tried not to. Mama would be very patient and very kind, and she’d pretend that she believed everything Duro said, so she could convince him that she’d really taken care of it.

“In the closet?”

Duro nodded.

“I want Mama.”

“Mama worked a lot today; she’s really tired. I’ll get it.”

Agron didn’t know what Duro was so afraid of; they already had a nightlight, and Mama was always careful to lock all of the windows in the apartment, and the door three times. Agron had stopped believing in monsters _ages_ ago, and he hadn’t gotten eaten or anything. Still, Agron was a good brother—Mama was always saying so—so he got up and went to open the closet door.

“Wait!” Duro said in a loud, shrieking whisper. He dropped the iguana and scrambled out of bed.

“Duro, I want to go to sleep! It’s not play time!” Agron hissed.

Duro ignored him and fell to his knees by the big toy chest. There was a determined expression on his face as he dug through the toys. Finally, he pulled out the best present Agron had gotten for his last birthday—a plastic sword, with a real point at the end and a big blue gem on the handle. Duro held it out to him.

“Okay, fine, I’ll use the sword.”

Agron turned away again, and suddenly Duro was _right there_ , squeezing him tightly around the middle as though he’d never see him again.

“ _Danke_ , Aggie,” he mumbled.

Agron hugged him back for a second, then told him to go back to bed. Duro hopped back on top of the covers immediately, as Agron approached the closet door. It was slightly ajar, and the clothes and shoes made an oddly-shaped shadow. Agron had to admit that, if he were Duro’s age, he might be a bit scared, too.

“On the count of three, okay?” he whispered. Duro nodded furiously. “One, two, _three_!”

Agron threw open the door and charged forth with his best battle cry—well, the best battle cry he could make without waking Mama. He knocked over shoes and swiped at shirts, and a few coats fell off of their hangers.

“Take that!” he said triumphantly. “And _that_!”

At first, Duro was still afraid, but then he was hanging on to the end of the bed and hopping excitedly, and when Agron finally puts down the sword, he turned to find Duro watching him with wide, shining eyes.

“Done,” he said sheepishly.

“You’re really brave,” Duro said, awed.

“Well, thanks for telling me they were there,” Agron said. He yawned. “They won’t come back anymore, okay?”

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“ _Positive_?”

Agron sighed.

“D’you want me to sleep with you tonight, just in case?”

Duro nodded again, so Agron climbed into bed with him. There was just enough comforter to cover both of them, although Agron had to push and entire army of stuffed animals out of the way. Duro clutched his iguana with both hands and snuggled against Agron. His hair was ticklish, but Agron didn’t say anything.

“Good night, Duro.”

“Thanks, Aggie.”

 

**2\. (11 and 14 years old)**

“What the hell is going on?” Agron demanded, dropping his baseball bag. He hadn’t even stopped to think; from the corner of his eye, he spotted three older kids hanging around Duro, and he saw red.

Now that he got closer, he saw that they weren’t as old or as big as they had appeared—he was three inches taller than all of them, and at least a year older. They looked up at him with laughter in their eyes, though it quickly faded when they saw the menacing expression on his face.

“Nothing, man,” said one of them, a pimply kid with a pinched face. “Kid’s got cool stuff, is all. He was just showing us.”

He waved Duro’s new GameBoy as proof. Duro had cleaned the apartment for two months to earn enough allowance to buy it, and he was proudly showing it off to anyone who could stay still long enough to listen, but Agron doubted that was the case here.

“Duro?” he asked.

“Give it back,” Duro mumbled, snatching it away from the kid. He shrugged.

“Whatever, man.”

Another boy, who was shifting to give Agron more space, was wearing a black-and-gold cap that Agron was very familiar with. He grabbed it off his head and handed it back to Duro.

“C’mon, Duro,” he said, glaring at the three boys suspiciously. “We’re out of here.”

He threw an arm over Duro’s shoulder, and they started to walk away.

“You okay?” Agron muttered.

“Yeah,” Duro said softly, rubbing his arm. Agron stopped in his tracks. He reached over and lifted the sleeve of Duro’s shirt to find a bright red mark on his upper arm, the exact size and shape of a hand.

Before Duro could say a word, Agron was whirling back around and running back. One of the boys saw him and started running, but the other two weren’t so lucky. He kicked the short one hard in the shins and tackled the pimply kid to the ground.

“Stay the _fuck_ away from my brother!” he growled, pairing each word with a punch. He didn’t particularly care where they landed—stomach, chest, and jaw were fair game, though after a minute his hand started to hurt, and he tried to avoid bone.

The short boy had gotten up at that point and tried to pull Agron away, but Agron elbowed him in the stomach and stood. He only punched him in the face twice—the first time, the kid’s lip split, and Agron didn’t want to get blood on his uniform. He kicked the boy on the ground one more time for good measure, and returned to where Duro was standing, watching him with equal parts embarrassment and admiration.

“Mom’s taking us out to dinner,” Agron said calmly as they started walking.

“Will you teach me how to fight?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Agron said in the firmest voice he could manage. “If you start throwing punches, then the other guy starts punching back, and harder.”

“You just beat _them_ up by yourself,” Duro protested.

“Yeah, well, I’m bigger than you are.”

“ _Please_ , Agron?” Duro pleaded. “What’s gonna happen next year, when we’re in different schools, huh? You’re not going to be around all the time. I’ve got to learn to stick up for myself.”

“Hey, if someone starts bothering you, you tell me.”

“I can’t tell you if someone punches my teeth in,” he grumbled.

Agron looked down. Duro had that stubborn expression on his face, the one he always got when he really, _really_ wanted something. That expression could stay for a couple of days, even a week, if he wanted it especially badly. Agron flicked the brim of his hat.

“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll teach you how to fight. But you have to _really try_ , Duro. I mean it—if you’re going to learn how to hit people, then you need to hit them as hard as you can. You can’t just give up halfway through, because _they’re_ not going to stop, and then you’re dead.”

Duro’s face lit up, and he was about to chatter—Agron recognized his chattering face, too—when their mom pulled away from a group of older women and spotted them.

“There you are, boys,” she said in German. “I’ve been looking for you. You must be starving—Agron, what’s this?” She reached for his hand and held it up to inspect the blood on his knuckles.

“Nothing, Ma,” he said breezily, pulling away. “I just cut my ankle a bit when I was sliding into third. Don’t worry; Coach already took care of it.”

She clucked at him disapprovingly as they walked to the bus. As she sat on the bench, Duro peered around her back and grinned.

 

**3\. (16 and 19 years old)**

Duro’s regular heart rate was 51 beats per minute. Agron knew the sound; he could tap it out in his sleep. Sometimes, Duro would stir, just slightly, and his heartbeat jumped to 55 beats per minute, but Agron had long stopped getting excited about it. He just sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair and waited, his eyes fixed on the heart monitor.

It had been a week since the accident. Sometimes, when Agron slept, he had nightmares about it—not real nightmares, not memories, but horrific fabrications of what could have happened. In the dreams, everything happened fast, like a horror movie, and there were great splashes of blood and screaming bystanders and the whole sky was a black wall of thunderclouds.

In real life, it had been exceedingly simple. They were walking home from school, just like any other day, when something—a dog, a kid, he wasn’t sure—ran into the road. The driver—fucking idiot—swerved to avoid it, jumped the curb, and hit Duro.

And that was it. Then Agron was staring down at his brother on the ground, blood soaking into his blue t-shirt, something white poking out of the knee of his jeans, and his eyes closed.

He had panicked, he remembered. He tried to drag Duro away from the sidewalk, then thought about performing CPR, then decided to try and stem the bloodflow instead. He had taken First Aid training the year before, but in the classes they never taught you how to deal with the emotional impact of seeing your brother half-dead.

The doctors said that Duro would probably wake soon, but there was no real way to tell. Agron’s foot tapped impatiently, 51 beats per minute.

\--

The day that Agron was supposed to graduate, Duro spoke.

He couldn’t form real words, but his eyes opened and _fixed_ on Agron’s face, and Agron’s heart almost stopped.

“Duro?” he asked hoarsely. “Are you—awake?”

“Mm.”

“ _Fuck_!”

Agron squeezed his brother’s hand and jumped up as Duro made a garbled, vowel-heavy sound he couldn’t understand.

“Okay—okay, just be calm, okay? I’ll be right back—right back, I promise, just stay awake—”

He threw open the door to the room and sprinted down two hallways, to Dr. Patel’s office. He banged furiously on the door, informed the doctor about what had happened, and then sprinted back, ignoring the shouts of nurses and residents to slow down. He was panting by the time he got back to Duro’s room.

“Uguh,” Duro said. Agron wondered if that was supposed to be his name.

“I got the doctor,” he told him. “You’re going to be okay, Duro, I promise. All right? Just stay with me. Don’t fall asleep again, please.”

Duro tried to make an affirmative sound, but his eyelids were already straining, and by the time Dr. Patel introduced himself, he was asleep again.

“Fucker,” Agron muttered.

\--

Eventually, Duro managed to stay conscious for hours rather than minutes, and Agron was able to go home again. He had left his phone off in the hospital, and turned it on to find a bevy of texts and voicemails, checking up on him or asking what was up with Duro. Donar wanted to know what he was going to do; Spartacus offered to run any errands they needed; Mira told him that they had started a fundraiser at school to help with the hospital costs.

Agron sent off a quick thank you to them all, then turned the phone off again and fell on the couch.

He missed his mother.

\--

“I’m taking a gap year.”

Duro winced.

“Shit, Agron, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do. It’s fine. I talked to the Financial Aid office already, and they said they’ll hold my scholarship for a year.” Agron sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, Duro, you’re going to be in physical therapy for a _while_ , okay? And I can’t… I just can’t go away without knowing for sure that you’re going to fine.”

“You could live off-campus.”

“Nope. It’s a lottery system; freshmen usually don’t get off-campus housing, and if they do, it has to be a certain distance away. Don’t argue with me on this one.”

Duro frowned and picked at the scratchy blanket. He had been conscious for a week and a half, and in the hospital for three. His tan had faded, his muscles atrophied. He had a broken leg, a broken hip, and four broken ribs. Agron was just happy he was alive.

“How the fuck are we going to pay for all this, Agron?” he asked quietly.

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Seriously. I mean, Jesus, it was bad enough when Mom died, and _she_ was only in the hospital for, like, four days.”

“We’re not paying for a funeral this time,” Agron snapped. “I _said_ we’ll figure something out. Mira’s raising a shit ton of money for you, and I’ll get more hours at work and… don’t worry about it. You know I’ve got your back.”

Duro smiled faintly.

“ _Arm, aber sexy_?”

Despite himself, Agron laughed.

“ _Arm, aber sexy_ ,” he agreed.

 

**4\. (21 and 24 years old)**

“Jesus Christ, Agron, can we please stop arguing about this?”

“Nope. The guy’s an asshole, Duro.”

As far as Agron was concerned, the conversation was over. He flopped on the couch and turned on the TV. ESPN was showing highlights of a soccer game—Germany vs. Spain—that was still sitting in his recordings, so he flipped the channels idly. Cooking show, game show, self-help show, Maury. He had a feeling that Duro was going to try and start talking again, so he left it on Maury and turned the volume up.

“You’re the one who’s being an asshole,” Duro snapped, snatching the remote away. “I need some advice, Agron.”

“I know, and my advice is ‘Drop the scumbag fuck buddy’ and get an actual boyfriend. Girlfriend. Whatever.”

“He’s _not_ a scumbag,” Duro insisted. “Or a fuck buddy. Stop saying that.”

Ageon glared at his brother. It had only been a month, and already he was pretty fucking tired of this Auctus guy, for reasons that had little, if anything, to do with the fact that their first and so far only face-to-face meeting had been when Agron walked into Duro’s apartment to find him naked on the couch.

“How would you feel if I said that kind of stuff about Nasir?” Duro demanded.

Wrong thing to say.

“Different fucking circumstances,” Agron spat. “First of all, you _like_ Nasir. Secondly, he’s not an asshole. Thirdly, we’ve been _officially together_ for six months, which is a hell of a lot longer than you and him have been _fucking_. And fourthly, say anything like that again and I’m going to kick your ass.”

The look Duro shot him could best be described as mutinous. He stood up and stormed to the refrigerator, where he grabbed two beers. Agron went to his recordings and turned on the soccer game. He tried to keep his eyes on it, but his view was obstructed when Duro sat down on the coffee table and handed him a beer. He paused the game.

“What?”

“I know I haven’t known him for very long, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t like him or that this isn’t going anywhere. Every relationship starts somewhere—and I know this isn’t your idea of a relationship,” he added, his voice climbing over Agron’s protests. “But will you just listen to me?”

Agron scowled. After a moment, he leaned back and took a long drink.

“Fine.”

“Okay.” Duro scratched the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was thinking. "Look, Auctus is... he's a really sweet guy, okay? Honestly, the dude is a serial monogamist; he cleared out a drawer for me after, like, the third time we got together. I mean, half the time it's not even sex, it's just talking and drinking and shit."

Agron pulled a face, but Duro persisted.

"The problem is that's he's had some really shitty relationships recently. Broken engagement, closeted assholes, been cheated on, the works. So now he's really fucking nervous about starting something new, and I get that, you know? I can work with that. I just... I need some advice, Agron, okay?”

Agron looked at him for a long minute, then looked away.

“Okay. What is it?”

“It’s because—well, fuck, every time I think of something that could work, I scare him away. I need, like, one date idea. Just something casual and… subtle.”

Agron snorted.

“You came to _me_ for subtlety?”

“What, was I supposed to rely on my instincts?”

“Good point.”

He thought for a moment, then gestured for Duro’s phone. Duro handed it over cautiously.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“Hey, do you want to go bowling Thursday?” Agron recited as he typed out a text.

“ _Bowling_?”

“Yup.” Agron looked up. “It’s too casual and middle-of-the-road for anyone to say no, but no one actually likes bowling enough to object when you stop halfway through the night and say ‘Sorry, this sucks, want to duck out and get some food or something?’ Then, ta-dah! You’re on a real date.”

Duro’s eyebrows rose.

“Huh. That’s actually pretty good.”

“Yup.” The phone buzzed. Duro reached for it, but Agron kept him at arm’s length. “He says ‘um, sure, why not? smiley-face’.”

“Now what are you saying?”

“’If you stand me up, my brother’s going to kick your ass.’”

Duro laughed, and then stopped laughing very abruptly.

“Holy shit, you’re not actually sending that, are you?”

There was a pause, and then the sent-text tone went off.

“Yup.”

Duro snatched the phone back and stared at it, dumbfounded. Agron leaned back with a catlike grin and sipped his beer. Duro punched him.

“I can _not_ believe you just sent that! Jesus fucking Christ, Agron, I was just talking about how I don’t want to scare him off and you go sending a shitty fucking thing like that. God, you’re such an asshole. I’m out—see you Saturday.”

He stood up and stomped to the door. Agron hit play on the game, grinning.

“Hey, lay off the hardwood,” he said cheerfully.

“Alonso wins it for Spain in the last quarter, 4-3!” Duro yelled as he wrenched the door open.

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Wait, shut up, shut up, he just texted me.”

Agron was about to point out that his volume had little to do with a text, when Duro let out a bark of delighted laughter. Agron stood and walked over to him, craning his neck to see the phone screen.

“What’d he see?”

“’Lol, bring it on. Warn him that I can bench 210. Tongue-sticking-out face.’”

Agron frowned.

“I don’t like him. That emoticon is weird.”

Duro laughed again, punched him on the shoulder, and left. Agron looked at the TV and sighed. He really needed to go the gym.

 

**+1. (24 and 27 years old)**

Nasir hummed quietly to himself as he fixed Agron’s collar, and Agron tried to still the _snakes_ coiling around in his stomach.

“Are you sure we’re not underdressed?” he asked, investigating himself in the mirror.

Dark grey suit, red shirt—he looked damn good, and he knew it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be wearing a tux or a tie or a something. Nasir wasn’t even wearing a suit, just a cream shirt, a black vest, and black dress pants that did a hundred wonderful things to his ass.

“Positive,” Nasir confirmed. “I checked with Naevia and Pietros; if we’re underdressed, then at least there are six of us. And there’s only going to be, what, sixteen people at the brunch?”

“Yeah. But shouldn’t I at least be wearing a tie or something?”

“Nope; the only people wearing suits _and_ ties are the grooms.” Satisfied, he turned around and starting buttoning up his vest. “I think my buckle’s twisted in the back—will you fix it for me?”

“Sure.”

Agron tried to undo the twisted strap, but the silk was slippery, and his fingers unbearably clumsy. He managed to finally unbuckle in, and let the two wisps of fabric hang there.

“Fuck. I should not be this nervous.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Nasir agreed. “The fact that you’re getting cold feet at a wedding that’s _not your own_ makes me nervous.”

He wrapped his arms loosely around Agron’s neck. Agron kissed his forehead and tried to breathe as they slowly swayed from side-to-side. Duro and Auctus had decided on the least formal wedding they could think of—a courthouse ceremony followed by brunch at Crixus and Naevia’s place, as they had the biggest house of anyone they personally knew, besides Auctus’s parents, and who the fuck wanted to drive to Boston?

Nasir, on the other hand, had made it very clear that he wanted something more—“because I _fucking_ deserve it” he said, and they had been in such a position that Agron was heartily inclined to give in to his every demand. That meant that Agron was now learning how to dance and identify flowers and tell the difference between crimson and maroon. And yet none of it was as stressful as picking out the right clothes for his brother’s wedding. Nasir’s nails lightly scraping at the back of his neck helped, though.

“You know I love you, right?” he said quietly.

Nasir wiggled his right ring finger and smiled.

“Yeah, I know. And you know that Auctus loves Duro, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just being stupid.”

“No, you’re being a good brother, because that’s what you’ve always been.”

“A lot of stuff is going to change today,” Agron said, releasing a deep breath.

“Like what?” Nasir said, puzzled.

“We’ll have different last names. I won’t be his emergency contact anymore.” Agron paused, thinking, and Nasir raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Um. Different… vacations?”

Nasir thumped him on the chest.

“See? Nothing’s going to change. You’re not losing your brother, you’re just getting a new one. Now cheer up, smile, and call Duro to make sure _he’s_ not freaking out. And buckle my vest.”

\--

There were only seven people at the county clerk’s office, in addition to the couple themselves: Agron, Nasir, Auctus’s parents, his two sisters, and his brother-in-law. They had to wait half an hour, in which Agron determined that Duro wasn’t freaking out, and then told a stream of steady jokes to ensure that he didn’t start freaking out later. After that, there was only ten minutes between “We are gathered here today” and “you may kiss your husband.”

And it was done. Auctus’s family swarmed them, and Agron hovered awkwardly on the edge of the crowd. To be frank, he needed a moment; he was still kind of dizzy.

“Congratulations,” the officiant said with a smile. “If you could just sign the marriage certificate real quick…”

Auctus was able to extricate his limbs from his mother long enough to sign, and Duro followed him.

“And your witness?”

“Me.”

Agron stepped forward and signed his name. Auctus breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, and Agron resisted the urge to put him in a headlock. He settled for a normal hug, though his pat on the back probably could have been a bit gentler.

“Congrats, man,” he mumbled. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“Yeah, yeah, doom and gloom.”

“Actually I was going to leave out the threats—it’s a special day, you know? I was just going to say treat him right and have a good life… and don’t fuck it up.”

Nasir rolled his eyes and elbowed Agron out of the way.

“What are we going to do with them?” he sighed.

“I have an idea,” Auctus laughed, hugging him and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

That left just Agron and Duro. Duro stood there with a little half-smile on his face, and held up his arms for a hug. Agron squeezed him tightly.

“You’re going to break more ribs,” Duro complained.

“So? Get your freakin’ husband to protect you now,” Agron snorted.

“And you just said freak instead of fuck! What’s wrong with you?” Agron slapped him in the head, which was a lot closer to his normal personality, and Duro laughed. “I’m glad we decided not to elope.”

“Me, too. You know I love you, right? Even if you are a fucking idiot sometimes and you’re married to a scumbag?”

Duro erupted in another round of laughter—more properly, it could have been called giggling—and Agron couldn’t help but join him.

“Thanks, Aggie.”


End file.
